


Or Belle

by PenelopeLane



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-20 03:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9472679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeLane/pseuds/PenelopeLane
Summary: Written when OUAT was still a new show. Instead of being banished to Storybrooke, Regina banishes Gold and Belle to New York City. He is a millionaire art dealer and she is a ballerina at Julliard. Belle remembers nothing, but Gold remembers everything. They find each other but how will he make her remember? It's a tale as old as time. Obviously A/U!





	1. Chapter 1

ORIGINALLY WRITTEN MARCH 2012.

Hi! This story is based on a crazy dream I had last week. I don't know where it's going to go but we shall see. The forces in place are less "Dark Curse" and more "Fate" based. Rosalind is Belle's "real world" name and means "beautiful rose". Hope you all like it!

 

"Ugh," Rosalind sighed, "I feel like I'm cursed."

"You're not cursed," Nina smiled, "it's just a bad patch. You'll get through it."

"Last year it was my ankle," Rosalind slumped onto a nearby bench in the hallway, "now I've lost my scholarship."

"There was no way," Nina sat beside her friend, "that you could know that the foundation would fold! It does seem odd that the Regal Apple Foundation would just… go under like that but …I'm sure you can apply for other scholarships."

"What I really need to do," Rosalind spied the bulletin board at the other end of the corridor, "is to find a job. I wonder what he's posting about."

Nina shivered, "He looks creepy. Probably another one of those 'dancer' jobs. You don't want to do that."

"Well," Rosalind rose and walked over to the man, "I'm desperate for money. It can't hurt if I just look. I don't know what I'll do about rent next month!"

Nina shook her head in exasperation at her friend, stretched, and went back into the practice room.

Rosalind sidled up to the man as he pinned a paper to the corkboard.

"Personal assistant," Rosalind muttered as her eyes fell upon the job description.

"For my art collection—"

Gold turned to her. He froze. Rosalind raised an eyebrow.

"Your art collection," she said slowly, "to… manage it?"

He said nothing. Rosalind nodded uncertainly.

"An… hourly wage?" She prodded him.

He nodded wordlessly.

"Well," Rosalind took out her phone, "can I come in for an interview? I'm looking for a job for this semester. I just lost my scholarship. A lot of young dancers will be screwed now that the Regal Apple Foundation is no more…"

"…Regal Apple…"

"Yeah, have you heard of it?"

"Yes." Gold bit the inside of his cheek hard.

"So when can we meet?"

"…Excuse me?" There was a coppery taste of blood on his tongue.

"When can I have an interview for the position?"

Gold cleared his throat slightly as he regained his composure, "tomorrow at …4? Erm, 3 East 70th."

"Got it." Rosalind entered the information into her phone.

"See you then," Mr. Gold nodded slightly as he moved for the door, "good night."

"Wait," she called to him.

Mr. Gold could feel his heart flutter at the sound of her voice. He didn't turn around for fear of his eyes betraying his emotion, "Yes?"

"Don't you want to know my name?" She smiled bemusedly.

"Of… course," he shot the answer over his shoulder.

"It's Rosalind. Rosalind French."

He turned away again, took a breath, and closed his eyes for a moment.

"What's your name?"

"You can call me… Mr. Gold."

"Mr. Gold." Rosalind repeated, "well… see you tomorrow."

"Yes. Tomorrow." He muttered and left.

Rosalind knitted her brow in utter confusion before ducking back into the practice room.

After Adagio class, Rosalind scurried into the bathroom and threw on a skirt and blouse. She jammed her practicing attire into her enormous bag. She swung the stall door open and gave herself one quick look in the mirror before flying out the door. She was usually ready to take a nap after her last class but today seemed different.

Rosalind sprinted down 66th street and onto Central Park West. After an extremely close call with a cab and nearly losing a shoe to a steaming pile of horse feces, she made it into the park and slowed her pace.

Why am I running? She thought. I still have twenty minutes.

She took a huge breath and ran a hand across her chignon. It was still smooth. The walk was nice; she couldn't remember the last time she was in the park. Rosalind never usually ventured outside much between school and being at home in her apartment. But then, she was usually sleeping.

It wasn't long before she came upon Fifth Avenue. She made a left and walked four blocks up to 70th street.

"Number 3… number 3…" She whispered to herself, "oh… this can't be right."

Her jaw dropped as she gazed at the building before her. It was a beautiful old limestone mansion. There was a wrought iron fence with a gilded gate around its perimeter. It didn't quite look out of place as the neighborhood was dripping with old money but the energy the building emanated was decidedly otherworldly. It unnerved her.

"This has to be a joke." Rosalind muttered, "This is worse than that craigslist scam. Well, at least Nina will be amused."

But Rosalind didn't leave. Her logic informed her of the strange and possibly dangerous situation she was in but a sensation in her chest cemented her feet to the pavement. She saw a call button by the front entrance of the gate. The voice in her head screamed at her as she moved to it and placed her finger against the button. Her heart jumped a little as the gate swung open.

Rosalind walked up to the entrance and put her knuckles up to the door to knock. The door opened and Mr. Gold stood in the doorway.

"Welcome." He said as the corner of his lip lifted into a small smile.

"Is this your….?" Rosalind stammered as she stepped over the threshold.

"Home?" Mr. Gold finished as he led her through the entrance hall into his study, "yes. When this opened up, I just couldn't resist. It was quite a deal."

Rosalind consciously closed her mouth in order to refrain from looking like a gaping codfish.

"It's unbelievable." She breathed as she gazed at the large paneled room.

The sunlight streamed in through large arched French windows. The Persian rug seemed to be over a hundred years old but it was still soft and plush beneath her feet. A large grandfather clock ticked in the corner.

"Have a seat." Mr. Gold gestured to the Chippendale chair in front of his desk as he took the one behind it. "So, tell me about yourself… Ms. French."

Her name seemed to roll off his tongue with a familiar level of ease that intrigued Rosalind. She smiled.

"Well," she breathed, "I've danced for as long as I can remember. I grew up in a small town but I wanted more than the country life. Too provincial for me, you know? So, I got a scholarship for ballet and I've been studying here for three years. In March, I'll audition for the company. In May, I graduate.

"It's expensive for a student to live in New York and I've been living in a virtual closet in Hamilton Heights for the past year. It costs nine hundred dollars a month. I lost my scholarship last week and now I don't have any means with which to pay for school, let alone rent or other expenses.

"I did help my father out in his office when I was younger—he's in sales. So I have some administrative experience. Other than that… I…love… art?"

"I can offer you twenty five dollars an hour."

"That's great…." Rosalind huffed incredulously, "how many hours a week?"

"Around thirty." Mr. Gold replied, "Maybe more. I want to be as respectful of your studies as possible but my collection is very big... and, at the moment, very disorganized. Don't worry, you won't be lifting anything – I have people for that. I don't want you to be physically compromised in any way, knowing that it's your livelihood."

"Thank you."

"There may be some late hours," he continued, "I have various events I attend, gallery openings and such. I'll need you to handle everyday operations of the overall collection: monitor room temperatures, hire restoration specialists and keep track of my items. I have a variety of things."

"I… can see that…." Rosalind glanced around the room.

There were Ming vases, Roman artifacts, and Flemish tapestries from the fifteenth century. All priceless objects but only one thing caught her eye.

Rosalind rose from her chair and started toward it before nervously glancing at her new employer.

"May…I?"

He nodded slightly, his eyes trained on her as she gravitated toward the tiny thing. Rosalind bent down and studied it.

"It's a chipped cup." She grinned without hiding her puzzlement.

"Yes." Mr. Gold expelled a steady breath from his lungs.

"I… I…" Rosalind stuttered, "I think I had a tea set like this when I was young… though… I can't quite remember… the pattern, it looks so familiar."

"Does it?" His heart was in his throat now.

"Yes… but…"

"What?"

"Oh, never mind." Rosalind waved her hand and stood up straight, "it's funny, though."

"Funny?"

"Yes. I mean, you have so many valuable things and then… you have this. Why?"

He was silent.

"I'm—I'm sorry," Rosalind blurted out, "I shouldn't have pried."

"No worries." Gold cracked a smile, relieved he didn't have to answer her question. "So can you begin on Saturday?"

"Well," Rosalind thought for a moment, "I have a workshop at ten. I can hop over after that. It ends at noon."

"Perfect." Mr. Gold said, "I'll see you on Saturday, Rosalind."

Her eyebrow went up at the emphasis he put on her name.

"See you then, Mr. Gold." She giggled.

He saw her to the door and closed it tightly after she'd left him. He'd spent so many years combing the city. He wandered the streets at night, wondering where she was. They had been placed here for a reason but the Evil Queen got more than she bargained for when she'd made the deal with him. With the knowledge he'd retained, Rumpelstiltskin knew Belle was somewhere in this chaotic urban mess but the Queen had kept her hidden away from him. He had begun to believe it was a lost cause.

He'd gone to all the colleges and had put up job descriptions every once and a while, knowing Belle would fall into the age range. He'd always kept up his hopes that she'd be a student somewhere – and not out, alone, on the streets.

He was just going through the old motions the day before at the ballet school's practice building. He'd even been there a few times before but never had seen her. Truth be told, he spent the majority of his time at the city libraries scanning the stacks for her face.

A dancer. A ballerina. It made him ecstatic and anguished in the same moment. She seemed truly happy to be pursuing ballet. Her face had ignited with that same passion he'd dreamed of every night since she had left him. It was a remarkable feat that she'd found such joy in this place.

With his cane guiding him, Mr. Gold shuffled into his parlor. He gazed out the window just in time to see her cross the street and disappear into the park.

A second chance. He'd never had one before.


	2. Chapter 2

Rosalind slipped off her pointe shoes and brushed away the lambs' wool on her toes.

"So you start today?" Nina asked as she packed up, "that was quick."

"Yes," Rosalind responded with a perplexed look on her face, "I don't think he interviewed anyone else. The whole situation is so serendipitous. The job. The mansion. The pay."

"I still think you need to be careful, Roz," Nina warned as they left the practice room and started down the stairwell, "He's paying you a lot of money. You're a young woman. He's… alone in that creepy mansion."

"It's not like that, Nina," Rosalind said firmly, "He has a vast collection of art and artifacts and needs someone to take care of it. Thank God I found a job! I can stay in school and pay rent!"

"Please," her friend grabbed her arm tenderly, "Be careful. That guy looks like he has a dungeon. And he may want to keep you there."

Rosalind rolled her eyes but smiled, "I'll be careful. All right. Time to leap across town. See you later?"

Nina nodded and headed for the subway. Rosalind headed east and crossed through the park.

For the better part of the day, Gold sat next to the window in the parlor. He took his eyes off the street only to glance at the clock.

And then, at five minutes until noon, she emerged from the park. Her hair, again, was pulled back into a tight chignon. The severity of the hairstyle made her look different but no less beautiful. He liked it that way. It gave her a sense of distance that he appreciated.

She shielded her eyes from the midday sun and walked up to the gate. She buzzed and he went to let her in. He opened the front door before her knuckles could touch it.

"Hi," she smiled, "how are you?"

"Very well. Shall we begin?"

Gold led her through the front hall again down a long corridor into a large room with many windows. On the far wall was a large tapestry of a unicorn.

"It's beautiful!" Rosalind exclaimed.

"Yes, it's one of the seven in 'The Hunt of the Unicorn'." Gold said.

"Which one is this?"

"It's the second. It's called 'The Unicorn is… Found.'"

Rosalind studied it intently as Gold intently studied her.

"Many of them are up at the Cloisters," he explained, "I've agreed to loan this one to them as part of an exhibit. Make note of any wear and call the restorer. I've set up an office for you in the next room. All of the contact information you need is in there. I'll leave you to it."

With that, Gold left her.

"Quickest orientation in history," Rosalind mumbled to herself.

She popped out of the room and into her office. She found a pad and a pen and set to work with a magnifying glass combing over the tapestry.

After five hours of painstaking work, Rosalind called the Met and made an appointment for the tapestry to be picked up and restored at their facility. Satisfied with her task, Rosalind set out to find Mr. Gold and tell him the news.

He was not in his study. Nor was he in the parlor.

The mansion was as silent as a tomb. She crept through the halls without a sound. She made a right turn and then a left, then another and another. She climbed one staircase and descended another. Soon she was helplessly lost. Her eyes fell upon a door. Perhaps it was a way back from where she came?

"Worth a shot," she whispered to herself and tried the doorknob.

Before Rosalind could go any further a cane swung in front of her face and slammed onto the wood of the door in front of her.

"Do not," Mr. Gold seethed, "open this door."

"Forgive me…I…"

"These are my private quarters," he growled, "you are not to be up here."

"I'm so sorry—"

"What made you think you could sneak around my house?"

"I'm—I'm sorry." Rosalind stammered, "I was trying to find you."

"Find me?" Gold leaned into her, "find me? You obviously didn't look in the right place! Imagine my surprise when I went looking for you and found nothing. I found nothing."

"I—I am sorry. Please, forgive me."

Gold inhaled deeply, ready to unleash his venom but he refrained.

"Yes. Well." He sniffed and composed himself. "Follow me."

Rosalind obeyed and he led her back downstairs to the tapestry room.

"So, are you finished?"

"Yes, I called the restorer." Rosalind replied dutifully, "A crew will be here on Monday to pick it up."

Mr. Gold surveyed the tapestry. "Accompany it to the facility."

"I will." Rosalind smiled. "Do you have anything else you need me to do?"

"I need your contact information," he said, "other than that, you are free."

Rosalind smiled again, this time a little nervously. Whenever Mr. Gold looked at her a chill ran up her spine. She couldn't decide if it was really good or really bad. She wrote down her address and phone number.

"I'll see you on Monday, then?" She asked.

Mr. Gold gave a short nod of assent.

"All right, good night." She smiled once more in response to another ripple of chills running up her back.

She grabbed her bag and left him.

He'd spent years without her. He'd grown used to his loneliness. He'd even begun to accept and tolerate his solitude. And, out of the godforsaken blue, she'd appeared. It was as if she'd assembled before his very eyes. Wasn't it what he had wanted? His solitude had changed him. He'd forgotten how lovely her mere presence had been to him. He had to make amends.

Rosalind's heart didn't stop racing until she was back at Lincoln Center. Perhaps she'd overestimated his kindness. Perhaps she'd mistaken his generosity for friendliness. Or perhaps she shouldn't have been snooping.

She had to face it: she sort of was. Who was this mysterious man? She had tried to google him but nothing had come up, especially without knowing his first name. How did he acquire this enormous house on the Upper East Side? Who on earth was he?

Rosalind was deep in thought as she climbed the stairs back up to the practice rooms. She found her friend at the barre.

"So?" Nina asked with an arched brow. "You're still alive, that's a good sign."

"He's a character, that's for sure." Rosalind sat on the floor slipped off her street shoes and began to put her pointe shoes on, "Very blunt, to the point. A little severe. He… caught me sneaking around."

"What? Rosalind!" Nina cried mid-plié, "Haven't you ever read any female detective books? Snooping happens in the third chapter, at least. Then you get locked in the basement."

"Sorry," she laughed as she joined her friend, "I didn't know there was a formula."

"So do you still have a job?"

"Yeah," she replied as she began a series of tendus, "I do. That's the strangest part. I was sure I'd be fired but he didn't do it. I'm going back on Monday. I need to supervise a transport of a tapestry to the Met."

"Wow." Nina breathed, "Are you sure he doesn't want to get into your pants? You know plenty of men hang around here hoping to get with a dancer."

"Please," Rosalind made an exasperated noise, "I don't think he's like that. He just seems like some lonely eccentric who needs some help organizing his art. I… I feel sorry for him."

"Why?"

"I… I don't know." Rosalind stopped her battements, "You know when you just have a feeling you can't shake?"

"Yes."

"I have this feeling," she said and turned to her friend, "When I look at him. It's like his eyes… I've known them forever. I have no idea why. Do you get that feeling ever?"

Nina sighed and dropped her hand from the barre, "Yes. With Tim."

"Tim?" Rosalind asked with a grin, "Really? Tim? He's –"

"He's not gay!" Nina protested, "You'd think I'd have good gaydar by now in this profession! I know what everyone says about him. The gay guys think he's gay! But he's not. Oh, is he not. We're getting married."

"Okay then!" Rosalind chuckled, "so I guess we're even. You have your … weird… thing going on with… Tim and I have mine."

"Good luck with that."

After a few hours of practice, Rosalind bid goodbye to Nina and hopped onto the train to go home. She climbed the three flights of worn marble stairs to get to her tiny apartment. Waiting for her on the door was a notice from the New York City Housing Court.

"What in the hell….?" She muttered as she read the notice. "I'm being evicted?"

"Yes." A voice stated from behind her.

Rosalind whirled around. It was Mrs. Ratched, her landlady.

"The cheque from the scholarship fund," the sour-looking woman mumbled, "from last month didn't go through. And neither did the one from this month."

"But—but I should have a first warning—"

"Collect your things and go."

"But—I have to go to court!"

"Collect your things!" Mrs. Ratched snarled, "I'm putting a padlock on this door tonight. So you can either collect your things or you can leave. I don't care."

Rosalind frowned.

"And I'm taking your security deposit."

"What?" The girl cried, "Why?"

"I got a complaint from the downstairs tenant today," the old woman explained with a satisfied sneer, "your toilet overflowed and caused extensive water damage. I'm taking all of your deposit to fix it."

Rosalind was speechless. Once again, she felt cursed. Deeply and irrevocably cursed.

"Fine. FINE." She said, "Take all of my money. Kick me out. Just let me get a few of my things."

The landlady grunted in assent.

Rosalind stormed through her water-stained apartment and hastily packed all of her clothes. She didn't have much and she at least was grateful that she'd had her ballet items (which were her only things of value) with her when this disaster happened.

The bed was expendable. The linens were old. Perhaps she could convince this Xanthippe of a landlady to let her back in to get a few more things after this trip.

What a day this had been.

Rosalind clumsily stuffed all of her bags into her grocery cart and hurried out. She let the door slam loudly behind her. The cart bounced down the stairs in a noisy clatter. She was shaking. She'd call Nina. Perhaps she could sleep on her dorm room floor for a while.

She scurried down the street to the subway station. She could hear a familiar squeal from below; a downtown train was pulling in. Rosalind raced through the turnstile just in time to squeeze through the closing doors. There was one thing, however, that did not make it. Her phone.

She turned just in time to see it clatter to the ground of the station and literally shatter into pieces. It had fallen out of her pocket. The train sped away and tears began to stream down her face. She cried all the way from 137th street to the 66th street stop.

Her face was swollen and red as she dragged her little cart around a desolate Lincoln Center. It was getting late. Rosalind went to the dorms and tried to get in but as she did not have a resident escort, she was denied access. She meandered around until she collapsed onto the edge of the fountain. Her spirit was breaking. She began to sob.

A cool wind blew through the plaza that made the tear trails on her face feel like ice..

"Miss French."

Rosalind gasped at the sudden voice.

"I didn't mean to frighten you." Mr. Gold appeared before her.

"No… no… you didn't."

"I feel it would be remiss of me if I didn't ask you what was wrong."

"My life. My life is wrong."

"Oh?"

"I just got evicted." Rosalind sniffed, "I just broke and lost my phone. Security wouldn't let me into the dorms. I can't call Nina. She's probably out anyway. Having fun with the rest of my friends. And now I can't get in touch with anyone and I have nowhere to go. I'm homeless."

"You're… homeless…" Mr. Gold gazed upon the beautiful creature in the stark moonlight.

"Yes. And I don't even think that's legal."

"It's not." He seethed, "who is your landlord? What is the address?"

"It's Mrs. Eleanor Ratched. 600 West 141st street." She answered, "But she's got connections with the Housing Court. She evicts people all the time—"

"—I'll take care of it." There was an edge to his tone.

Rosalind nodded meekly, "thank you."

"So, you need a h—er—you have nowhere to stay?"

"No."

"You can stay with me."

"Wh—what?"

"My home is very large." Mr. Gold tread carefully. "I have seven guest rooms. There is more than enough room."

She opened her mouth to speak but paused.

"And it would be beneficial to me to have you so close."

She looked at him confusedly.

"For work." He finished.

"Really?"

"If you'd so choose."

"Well," she allowed her lips to form a small grin, "it would be much closer to school – and a much nicer commute. Thank you, yes."

"It's done then."

"And it won't be for long." Rosalind assured him, "Just until I get another apartment."

"Of course."

"Can—can I stay tonight?"

Her voice was so sad, so broken. Her eyes were pleading. Gold felt the air rushing out of his lungs. It took every ounce of power he had to keep all the revelations on his tongue from escaping. It took every fiber of control he had to not clasp her to his chest forever. He nodded.

She rose from the fountain and wiped her eyes daintily.

"All right," she straightened her spine, "let's go home."

Gold echoed the word nearly inaudibly.

"So…." Rosalind narrowed her eyes a bit as they walked through the park, "what—what were you doing at Lincoln Center late at night?"

"I came to apologize," he said, "I didn't give you any rules of the house and it was unfair of me to treat you as I did. For that, I am sorry."

"Apology accepted," she was struck with unabashed surprise, "and let me apologize again—"

"No need, it is forgotten."

They continued in silence as they entered the house. Rosalind tried to quiet the squeaky wheels of her sad little cart but the noise echoed off of the cavernous corridors. She tried to suppress a bout of sudden giggles. Mr. Gold glanced back at her slightly perplexed.

"Sorry," she shook her head, "it's just… this day…and this stupid fucking cart. I just had to … laugh."

Rosalind gazed at Mr. Gold. He somehow didn't look like the type who would laugh a lot. If he did, she was certain it would sound very strange indeed.

The house at night seemed to hum even more intensely with that energy that Rosalind had felt the first day she'd been there. She trailed Mr. Gold up the marble staircase. He led her to a room on the east side of the house. He opened the door and switched on the light. Rosalind stifled a gasp. It was modern. No, it was traditional. It was both. It was classic.

The walls were a dusty grey. On one wall was an ornate Louis XIV limestone fireplace so common in houses of this age. Opposite of the fireplace was a large bed with a headboard upholstered in charcoal merino wool. There were parquet floors and plush rugs underfoot. The chest of drawers was four hundred years old. The chandelier was an art deco piece. Rosalind gazed longingly at the crisp white bed linens. She realized at that moment how tired she was.

"This is incredible!" She breathed, "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Gold could only gaze at her. He cleared his throat and refocused.

"This button," he indicated a device on the wall, "will call downstairs to my housekeeper, Mrs. Brazier. I'll leave you to get settled."

"I'm so grateful for this." She said, "I don't know how I can ever repay you."

The corner of his mouth flicked upward for a moment before settling back into a thin line

"Good night."

"Good night, Mr. Gold."

Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Her shrieks rang out and ricocheted off the hallway walls straight down to the west wing of the house. Mr. Gold bolted out of his room with only one thought in his mind: Regina.

He burst into her room. All of the bedclothes were twisted in a heap on the floor. In a single shaft of moonlight, Mr. Gold watched as Rosalind writhed in the throes of a nightmare on the bed. He rushed to her side.

She flailed her arms about defensively but was still in a deep sleep. Mr. Gold dodged one arm and then another before ducking down and laying his hands firmly on her shoulders. He sat on the bed beside her.

"Belle!" He cried, "Belle!"

Her eyes were screwed shut tightly, "No…"

Mr. Gold muttered an obscenity before correcting himself, "Rosalind!"

She whimpered and became still. After a moment's pause, she shot up with a gasp, her eyes wide. In the semidarkness, Mr. Gold's breath hitched in his throat as he could make the outline of her hair as it fell down her back. It had the same loose waves, the same chestnut color, and the same sweet smell.

"What—what happened?" She stammered.

"You had a nightmare."

"I did…?" She whispered tiredly, "I… I did. I am so sorry! Did I wake you—"

"What was it about?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your nightmare," Mr. Gold seemed urgent, "what was it about?"

"I—" Rosalind stopped herself and shot a look at him before continuing, "I was in a stone room with no windows or doors. And I could hear laughing. Awful, horrible laughing. A woman."

He took a breath and drained any trace of expression from his face.

"She sounds like a witch." He muttered.

"And…" She rubbed her forehead as she remembered, "someone was calling my name but it wasn't my name. You know how it is in dreams, right? Things are but they aren't?"

"Right." Mr. Gold gulped.

"I am so sorry," Rosalind reached for the light and turned it on, "were you sleeping?"

She looked at him. He was still wearing his suit from earlier in the day.

"No." Mr. Gold replied, "No, I wasn't."

"How did you know I was having a nightmare?"

"You were screaming."

Rosalind gasped and her hand shot to her mouth in horror.

"I can't even remember the last time I had a nightmare," Rosalind said, "I think it was when I dreamt I was being taken away from my father."

"That was a nightmare?"

"If I remember properly, yes." She said and shivered.

Mr. Gold surveyed her: Rosalind was wearing a worn tee shirt that slipped off of her right shoulder and left little to his imagination.

The girl turned around and surveyed the bedclothes on the floor, "Oh God, look at what I've done."

She ran to the sheets and bent down as she gathered them in her arms.

Mr. Gold averted his eyes but not before the image of her black boy shorts was imprinted into his mind. Meanwhile Rosalind had smoothed out the bedclothes and sat down.

"Thank you for waking me," she bit her lip.

"If you need anything," he said softly, "you—you know where I am."

He gave her a shadow of a smile before he let himself out. He shut the door behind him and lingered for a moment as he heard her climb back into bed.

Mr. Gold stalked back to his room. That old familiar anger began to simmer again. The anger he'd felt toward Regina for taking Belle, for sending them to this godforsaken place. It was Regina who haunted Belle's subconscious and who had conjured those nightmares. He wanted to wring Regina's neck until her eyes bulged and she begged him for mercy. It was infuriating to admit he had no idea where she was.

So many nights he'd surged with unchecked rage and this night was no exception. Thinking of Rosalind sleeping in the next room was little comfort for him as she seemed to be most vulnerable when asleep. At least being under his roof would keep her safe. But those thoughts could not quell his anger completely. He grasped the handle of his cane, wishing for an outlet. And then he remembered the reason Rosalind was so upset earlier in the evening.

He promised her he'd take care of it.

Mr. Gold grabbed his overcoat and flew down the stairs (despite his leg). He glanced at his watch. It was 3:30 in the morning. He picked up the hall phone and called down to his servants' quarters. He woke his chauffeur.

"Where to, Mr. Gold?" He asked groggily as they pulled out onto Fifth Avenue.

"600 W 141st."

"Yes, sir."

A steady pounding on her front door awoke Mrs. Ratched. She slipped out of bed and went to it. With each pound, the door trembled.

"Who—who is it?" She asked meekly.

Gold didn't wait for a response. With a swift kick of his good leg, the door came crashing in. He bolted into the apartment and locked his fist around Mrs. Ratched's neck. With a rush of fury, he backed her into the wall. He spoke in an even, cool voice.

"You will drop the eviction charge," he said.

The trembling woman nodded.

"You will not threaten or bother Miss French ever again."

The woman nodded again, this time with a whimper.

Mr. Gold tightened his grip for emphasis. Mrs. Ratched got the message quite clearly. With a little jolt, he relinquished her neck from the vise of his hand.

He turned suddenly to an end table with a lamp on it. With one swing of his cane, the lamp flew across the room, made hard contact with the wall and shattered. A rain of glass poured down upon Mrs. Ratched, causing the woman to cower at Mr. Gold's feet.

The front door was hanging by the hinges but he grabbed the knob on his way out and slammed it shut with a loud bang. Mr. Gold strode out to his waiting car and slipped in.

"Home." He stated.

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think.


	4. Chapter 4

Rosalind's eyes cracked open and her sleepy gaze was met with ornate ceiling molding. She blinked once and remembered where she was. After a stretch, she climbed out of bed and threw on her kimono. There was only one thought on her mind: breakfast.

Now where the hell is the kitchen? She wondered to herself.

She padded downstairs and crossed down a long hallway. After a few turns, she found the kitchen: a large room with marble countertops, custom white cabinetry and large windows that overlooked the garden.

"You must be Mrs. Brazier." Rosalind approached the little woman who was busy bustling away at the large stove.

"Oh, yes, dear, you must be Rosalind!" The woman wiped her hand on a tea towel she had on her shoulder before offering it for a shake.

"It's nice to meet you," Rosalind replied with a smile, "I—I don't mean to bother you but—"

"Breakfast?"

"Yes, please!"

"Follow me." Mrs. Brazier said and led Rosalind out the way she came.

"Where—where are we—" the girl passed the refrigerator with a hungry, sad face.

Mrs. Brazier only beckoned her to follow and Rosalind obeyed. The plump little housekeeper led Rosalind to a large, wood-paneled dining room. Mr. Gold was at the head of a long mahogany table, reading the Wall Street Journal. Mrs. Brazier steered the girl to the table and patted her arm.

"Enjoy."

Rosalind gaped at the spread before her: scrambled eggs, fried eggs, hard boiled eggs, sausage, bacon, home fries, toast, a tureen of oatmeal, granola, yogurt, kiwi, berries, melon and grapefruit. On the side buffet was a coffee pot, a teapot and orange juice.

"Good morning, Rosalind," Mr. Gold glanced up from his paper and lingered on her appearance; she looked more beautiful than ever. Her hair was a tousled mass that fell to her shoulders and she had traces of eyeliner at the corners of her eyes but she seemed to glow.

"Good morning, Mr. Gold." She answered, "I… I didn't know it would be so formal today… I would've…gotten…dressed."

"Don't worry about it."

"Do… do you always have such variety for breakfast?" She wrapped her kimono so that it was closed and tied to sash tightly.

"No." He replied and turned a page, "I was unsure of what you like so I had Mrs. Brazier prepare a little bit of everything."

"That's… very generous. Thank you." Rosalind grabbed a plate.

She came down to the kitchen looking for some coffee, a melon slice and two hardboiled eggs but this was ever so much more than she expected.

"I'm probably going to feel like I ate a bowling ball later but I don't care!" She laughed as she helped herself to everything.

Once her plate was sufficiently filled, Rosalind noticed that the only other chair was at the opposite end of the table from Mr. Gold. He pretended not to be watching as he saw her place her plate near his, go to the opposite end of the table, retrieve the heavy mahogany chair and drag it across the rug so it was perpendicular to his. He also pretended not to notice the enormous streak mark the leg of the chair left in his antique carpet.

"Sleep well?" He asked carefully.

"Yes," Rosalind dug in, "yes, well, after… after what happened."

Mr. Gold did not comment. Rosalind took a bite of bacon and surveyed his hand before her.

"Your… hand… that's a nasty scrape." She said.

Mr. Gold quickly withdrew his hand from sight. "It's… nothing."

"Did you get it last night?" Rosalind asked, "I don't remember seeing it yesterday. What happened?"

"Er, yes—I—"

"Oh, God! Did I do that to you?" Rosalind gasped.

"No, no." He shook his head with a slight smile, "it's nothing. Just… broke a glass and…well…"

He raised his hand back up and shrugged.

"Nothing for you to worry about."

Rosalind nodded and finished eating in silence.

"It was delicious. Mrs. Brazier is an artist." She threw down her napkin and rose to bring her plate to the kitchen.

"No, don't," Mr. Gold stopped her, "you don't need to do that."

"Oh…ok." Rosalind put the plate back down on the table, "well, do you need me?"

"Excuse me?"

"Today? For work?"

"Er, I have some papers to be filed into the database."

"All right," Rosalind said, "well, I'll be practicing for four hours today since it's my day off –"

"There's an oxymoron in there somewhere."

"Ah, yes," she laughed, "Sundays I take it easy. Four hours instead of eight. See you later."

Nina was waiting at the barre for her.

"Still alive." She muttered with a grin.

"Yes!" Rosalind returned, exasperated. "Take it easy on me today."

She then told Nina about what had happened the night before.

"Oh, God, Rosalind!" She cried and stopped her exercises to hug her friend, "I'm so sorry. Where did you stay last night?"

"Mr. Gold's."

"What?"

"He offered one of his many guest rooms until I find an apartment," she said simply, "and I accepted. I lost my phone and couldn't get to you. Or anyone."

"Wow." Nina breathed and continued her rond de jambes, "I need to meet this guy. He seems unbelievable."

"He… he sort of is." Rosalind realized, "he's like my guardian angel."

"Sweetie," Nina whispered sadly, "there are no guardian angels in New York City."

"How are things with Tim?" Rosalind changed the subject suddenly. "Didn't he go out with you guys last night?"

"Girlfriend. Who's a model."

"Really?"

"Yes." Her friend sighed, "and I met her. And she's beautiful. And smart. And funny."

"Damn. I'm sorry."

"Our love saga continues!" Nina threw up her hands, "but! We did get to talking about you."

"Me?"

"Yes!" Nina lowered her voice and got close so the other dancers in the studio couldn't hear, "he mentioned something… interesting…"

"Do tell!"

"He mentioned that Georges can't stop talking about you."

"Georges?" He was a particularly amazing talent with piercing green eyes and jet black hair.

"Yes."

"He's gorgeous." Rosalind gushed, "and he's incredibly talented!"

"Yes." Nina agreed, "and he's straight. You should jump on him before one of Tim's girlfriend's friends snatches him. Stupid models."

"We've… we've never even talked," Rosalind shrugged, "he's cute—"

"He's coming this way!" Nina grabbed her friend's arm, "I'll make myself scarce. Good luck!"

Nina trotted off to the other side of the room to observe from afar.

"Rosalind!"

"Hi… Georges…." She said politely, "How are you?"

"Just trying to perfect this pas de deux with Charlotte for class."

"I've seen a little of it," she said, "You look great."

"Thanks," he replied tenderly, "I've been catching glimpses of you, too. You look so fantastic. Especially with that Giselle piece. So, I was wondering; would you want to do something with me for the December showcase?"

Rosalind was floored. Georges was probably the best dancer in the school. And he was noticing her. And talking to her. And complimenting her. And asking her to work with him. This was unreal.

"Of—of course!" Rosalind shouted. She calmed herself immediately, "what did you have in mind?

"I thought," he started, "that we could do Balanchine's The Steadfast Tin Soldier. I will be the soldier and you the ballerina. Do you know the story?"

"Yes," she replied, "I do. They fall in love because they both have one foot. The soldier falls out of the window, goes on this horrific journey that only Andersen could conjure and then, after being briefly reunited with the ballerina, they both fall into the fire. They burn away almost completely except for—"

"—Her spangle and his heart," Georges finished, "It was always one of my favorites."

"I found it dark," Rosalind laughed, " It's so sad and dreary. Makes for good dancing, though! Of course I'll do it! And with Balanchine's choreography, who wouldn't?"

"Well," Georges smiled broadly, "it's settled. I'll let Sergei know so he can guide us through it. But Rosalind-"

"Yes?"

"What's your favorite fairy tale?"

"Easy. Rumplestiltskin."

"Really?" He laughed in astonishment, "Talk about dark!"

"It's my fave!"

Georges nodded in defeat, "all right, then. Say we meet up with Sergei on Wednesday at 6?"

"Sure."

"Great!" He exclaimed, flashed her one more smile and ran off to continue practicing.

Nina found her way back over to Rosalind and extracted all the news from her.

Three hours later, Rosalind went back to Mr. Gold's mansion to work. She went into his study to let him know she was home.

"Oh, I've decided to give you the day off," he said with a small smile, "I didn't realize you had one day to relax. You can pick up tomorrow with the supervision of the tapestry transport."

"Really?" Rosalind asked, "Are you sure? Because I could just pop into the shower and be back down here—"

"It's fine," he said, "you have the rest of the day off."

"Thanks," she said, "I think I am going to take a nice long hot bath."

She turned to go and then stopped.

"Mr. Gold," she asked, "What is the best fireplace in the house to have a roaring autumnal fire?"

"The library. Why?"

"I should like to have one tonight," she inhaled, "I can smell autumn in the air. I think a fire would be a nice way to spend a day off."

"I'll see to it." He marveled at her.

"Oh, just give me a cord of wood and a match," she protested, "I—I don't want to be any trouble—"

"You are my guest," he stopped her in a low and even voice, "and I'd like to be a good host."

"Fine," Rosalind curled her mouth into an impish smile, "then you must join me."

She did not wait for a response before rushing off upstairs.

When Rosalind descended back down to the library, she was met with tea, cakes and sandwiches and a roaring fire.

"Mmmm," she took in the smoky aroma, "perfect."

She flopped onto the settee by the fire next to Mr. Gold, who was engrossed in a book. She studied him. The fire's light gave his sharp features a soft, warm glow. He didn't look as half as severe as he usually did.

"Would you, er, like to choose a book?" He asked, self-conscious that her eyes were so keenly set upon him.

"Mm," she glanced at the shelves, "Not interested today. But I think I'd like to hear about you."

He grunted with derision.

"Come on," she coaxed him gingerly, "I work for you, I live in your house. I need to know something about who you are."

He slowly laid his book aside.

"What do you want to know?" He asked carefully.

"Well," she pondered, "you're… from Scotland?"

"Yes." He gave the same answer whenever anyone asked him that question.

"How did you come to New York?"

"On an aeroplane."

"Ok…" Rosalind narrowed her eyes, "What do you do for a living?"

"Investing," he answered with a piercing look.

"Ah, I see." She nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer, "So tell me about where you grew up. What's it like?"

"It's…rainy." He managed, "What about you then? Where in Australia are you from?"

"Melbourne," she parroted, "weather can get crazy at times though it has a moderate oceanic climate."

Straight out of an encyclopedia, he thought bitterly. Regina had done a comprehensive, albeit dry job of implanting the proper knowledge into Belle's brain. He would've laughed if it hadn't been so utterly sad. He thought of the large manor house where Belle had grown up. It was on the shore of an alpine lake. The strongest memory of the day he'd come to strike the deal with her father was, of course, her bright blue eyes. The second strongest was the cool, enticing mountain air, the way it rustled the trees, giving life to a natural, waving chorus. It was a shame she'd had no memory of it.

Rosalind interpreted his momentary pause in conversation as a negative response to her. She turned her focus to the fire. Mr. Gold tried to search for something to say as he shifted in his seat.

Damn leg, he thought, I shouldn't have kicked that door down.

His bad leg had been unable to support his body and had been bothering him ever since then. He tried to furtively massage it and hoped Rosalind wouldn't notice. It didn't work.

"Is your leg bothering you?"

He shrugged with a slight frown.

"If I may ask," her voice was hesitant, "what… happened?"

"It's… it's a very old injury."

Rosalind had now begun to understand when Mr. Gold didn't want to answer a question.

"Well," she said, "if it's a joint problem, I can't help you. But believe me, if it's a muscle problem, I will be able to work magic."

She wiggled her fingers at him for emphasis.

"Magic? Really?" Mr. Gold inquired. He'd almost forgotten the concept.

"Here," Rosalind patted the settee, "put your leg here."

She scooted closer to him so that she was beside him.

"We do this all the time at school," she explained, "a group of us got certified so we wouldn't hurt each other and now we give each other massages. Nina says I'm the best at it but she would because she's all thumbs when it comes to this. We don't let her practice on anyone. May I?"

What else could he do but nod? Mr. Gold watched dumbly as Rosalind placed her hands on either side of his calf and began massaging it gently. Soon her ministrations became steadier and deeper. Her thumbs plowed along either side of his leg, pushing out all tension.

"Relax your foot," she advised, "you're just a ball of stress, aren't you?"

Mr. Gold was silent. He'd never even considered any type of therapy for his leg. He'd doubted that any type of this world's remedies would have any effect on it. Yet Rosalind's hands were skilled. Perhaps it wasn't so much her skill as it was the very contact of her body with his. He let out a long breath.

Rosalind continued to work without a sound. She glanced up at Mr. Gold's face and saw that he'd reclined slightly and had shut his eyes in response to the relief she was granting him. She smiled warmly. She worked her way up his leg and worked on his quadriceps. As her fingers moved higher, his eyes opened with a jolt.

"Please tell me if I'm too hard," she mentioned off-handedly as she worked, "Oh, there's a knot…"

She focused on a spot on the inside of his thigh and he jumped up in surprise. Mr. Gold grabbed her hand firmly but not roughly.

"That was great," he managed, "thank you."

"You're welcome," she said softly as she stretched her hands.

Rosalind would've liked to talk more with him but he picked up his book again and continued reading. She thought she'd do the same and went over to his floor to ceiling bookshelf.

"I can't believe how many books you have," she breathed in astonishment, "it's incredible."

"I like to have a good selection," he commented as he watched her grab the ladder and slide it over to where she'd spied a book. "What are you pulling down?"

"This one with the gold leaf spine," she ascended the ladder quickly, nearly to the top, "it's so high up."

"Be careful," Mr. Gold cautioned. "That ladder…"

"I can reach it," she was on the tips of her toes and could just brush her fingers against the book.

Mr. Gold threw the book aside and rushed to her. Rosalind was teetering on the edge of the ladder as she grasped the book in one hand but the action had proven too much for her balance. He watched as she swayed recklessly to the left and then back to the right before tumbling from the ladder. Without a second to think, Gold caught her swiftly in his arms. The book came down with her.

Rosalind froze for a moment in utter shock at her fall.

"Are you all right?" Mr. Gold demanded urgently.

"Yes, yes, thanks to you!" She cried, "My God, if you hadn't been there! I'm so stupid. It was just that this book—" She turned it over to reveal the title "—was so high up."

His gaze fell upon her azure eyes. They were as clear and as blue as the first moment he'd seen them. He fought against a violent urge to kiss her. Rosalind gave him a sheepish smile as a signal to him to set her on her feet. He did so and cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I hope I wasn't too heavy. I came down pretty hard on you."

"You must be a hundred pounds soaking wet," he quipped in an attempt at flippancy, "What book demanded your attention so?"

"Hans Christian Andersen's Fairy Tales," She showed him the cover.

He gave her a grunt of displeasure.

"I know," she agreed as she found her seat once again by the fire, "they're so depressing and sad. The endings…"

"There's good reason for that." He seethed.

"That Andersen was a manic depressive who had a massive inferiority complex when it came to women?" She asked pointedly.

"That's one theory." He retrieved his book and sat back down next to her. "So why did you want the book?"

"I am doing a pas de deux with someone at school," she began to leaf through the tales. "It's a Balanchine piece from the '70s. He used Bizet's music to create a dance for The Steadfast Tin Soldier."

Mr. Gold's eyes flashed for a moment and his mouth twisted into a satisfied grin.

"Who is your partner?"

"Georges Chevalier." She replied as she read the story, "he's an amazing dancer from France. He came to me today and asked if I would do it with him. After I died from shock, I said yes. He's quite possibly the best dancer I've ever seen. And he's quite possibly the most beautiful man I've ever seen, too."

Her words burned him but he said, "I'd love to see the dance."

"I'll let you know when it is," she glanced up from the book, "it'll be sometime in December."

"Remind me… of the story again?"

Rosalind read the sad tale to Mr. Gold. At the end she wiped a tear away with the back of her hand.

"Ah yes," Mr. Gold's words expressed a air of reminiscence, "I remember now…"

He remembered the deals he'd made with that toymaker. He also remembered that Regina had kidnapped a prince and his sweetheart princess and used them for a magical experiment when she was deciding how to dispatch Snow White. She turned the prince into a toy soldier and the princess into a paper ballerina. Unsatisfied with the fact that the results were not as devastating as she'd hoped, she'd discarded them. Rumpelstiltskin, who always was lurking about the castle in search of mischief, had found the sad figures and, knowing they'd been enchanted, traded them to a toymaker for a magic flute. The flute was long gone but it seemed the figures had made it to this world. Regina hadn't truly forgotten them. It seemed she was now using the soldier against him. He was prepared.


End file.
